


rebound (another time)

by sammyspreadyourwings



Series: sidereal (always) [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Dork Lovers Server Challenge (Queen Band), Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Illnesses, M/M, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Polyamory, Rain, Temporary Character Death, paranormal elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyspreadyourwings/pseuds/sammyspreadyourwings
Summary: Roger Taylor doesn't expect Brian May to show up at his door because Roger vividly remembers him dying.





	rebound (another time)

**Author's Note:**

> I turned something into a series, whoops. Not that you need to read Remains to understand what's happening here. Although its more universe building than anything and this is also me playing with style choices and I like some of them, mostly dialogue and though changes. Others not so much. Anyway, enjoy!

Roger isn’t expecting any visitors, so he’s more than a little annoyed with having to answer the door. He wanted nothing more than to scribble down song lyrics to the company of the rain. The pencil rolls off the countertop, and he rolls his eyes. This had better be someone dying or in need of help because he really isn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.

Not that he would turn away Freddie or John if it was a spontaneous visit. Not that they do that anymore.

He opens the door with a polite question on the tip of his tongue, but he forgets to breathe when he sees who it is standing in his doorway.

That’s certainly Brian May. Standing on his porch. Brian May who is soaking wet. In nothing more than a t-shirt and jeans. Looking like he’s thirty-something rather than twenty-something. It’s Brian May.

Roger slams the door.

It’s Brian May, but it can’t be. It can’t be Brian May because Brian May died. He died. A decade ago this August. It can’t be him.

Roger had his fair share of grief hallucinations. Brian walking through the door of the studio. Promising him that it was just a nightmare. Nearly went crazy with it, until John reminded him that there were other things that he needed to live for. 

He hasn’t had them for years. When he opens the door again, he expects to see no one except maybe his neighbor walking ( _even in the rain “what’s a light drizzle in London?”)._ Instead, Brian May is still standing on his porch looking politely confused.

He shuts the door again. With a deep breath, he leans against the wood and counts until ten. Then opens it again.

Brian May is still standing there, looking more confused and less polite. Roger gapes and then sees a man walking his dog.

“Oy! You with the dog! Do you see a guy on my porch?”

The man blinks, looks to where Brian May is standing, and then back to him, “yes?”

Roger nods and yanks Brian May in by the front of his t-shirt. It sounds like seams ripped. Roger would feel bad, but he doesn’t get why he can actually manipulate the hallucination. The hallucination that a random guy with a dog can see. Which means it isn’t a hallucination. It’s Brian May.

The door swings shut slowly.

Brian May, that _died_ from _hepatitis_ in _1974._ It doesn’t make sense. He can see the confusion slowly morph into concern, and there’s a twinkle of softness that he loves and knows. And well. It _is_ Brian May.

Which means he’s probably dead and that is not ideal.

It is strange, that heaven looks like a dreary flat in London, England. But it’s got his best friend that’s ten years dead, so it must be heaven. He can’t imagine the state that Freddie is going to find him in, and he feels bad about that.

“I’m dead?” He asks.

Brian May (what is he? Angel? Ghost? Soul?) blinks, “no?”

Roger blinks, “you are.”

“No?”

He feels a funny mixture churn in his stomach. He doesn’t know what it is, but he also doesn’t like it. Because Brian May wouldn’t lie to him, which means that this is a demon playing a very cruel trick on him. And that means he’s in hell, which not unexpected, is still a horrifying thought.

“Roger? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

He has.

There’s enough teasing gentleness in the voice (fuck, he had forgotten the sound of Brian’s voice. Recording didn’t do it justice.) that Roger immediately caves and falls to the ground. As well as into the Not Brian May who’s more Brian May than he’s had in years. Roger grips onto the front of his shirt (plain gray, soft cotton, worn, it smells like Brian dear god).

Not Brian May’s hand strokes his back. It’s warm and it feels like he’s alive and Roger hates it because he had been there when the doctors told them that – and it’s impossible. A part of him wants to believe that he gets this, _they_ get this, back. The universe realized the mistake it made.

But that’s not how the universe works.

“It’s okay Rog. You’re okay. Things are going to be alright.”

He sobs and tries to bury his face deeper into the soft fabric and the smell. Roger hasn’t realized how much he missed it until it was right in front of him. It’s been a decade, and he knows he’s dwelling on it but dammit, this is the first time he’s seeing his best friend since. The last time he saw him, they were all crying in a hospital room.

The last _good_ memory he had of Brian was playing that final concert. His fingers had flown over the Red Special, and the crowd had cheered, and they were all young and in love. Happy, healthy, untouchable. Unaware, naïve, and fragile.

And **_goddammit!_**

They’re on the floor. Roger isn’t sure when they sat down. But he doesn’t think that he can stand. His legs are shaking with no weight on them. Not Brian May probably realized that and lowered them to the ground.

He belatedly realizes that he’s sobbing. Not the quiet hiccups that he tried to hide from Freddie and John, but the heart-wrenching drama movie sobs. Roger feels Not Brian May’s chest vibrate, with likely soothing words because Not Brian May is so much like Brian May that it makes fucking sense that he’d try to comfort him.

He hates himself for giving into the comfort.

Eventually, he tires himself out. His throat raw and his eyes dry. He feels the blotchiness in his face. Roger doesn’t want to open his eyes. Afraid that whatever demon he’s with is going to not look like Brian May anymore, having got his kicks off completely decimating the walls he’s built since then.

Roger Taylor is no coward. He cracks open an eye. Soaking wet dark curls are the first thing he sees, and then when he dares to turn his head, he sees concerned hazel eyes. What gets him, he didn’t know he could cry this much (Christ he’s going to be dehydrated), is that they look as though his heart is breaking.

“Shhh, love, you’re okay. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we’ll get through this.”

Roger wants to scream at Not Brian May, because he has no right in calling him that, but it sounds so right that he falls into it. Anger and hurt war in equal parts with each other and he hates it. It feels like he did when he first got the news and he doesn’t want to go back to that headspace.

He’d never fully understood Brian’s melancholy, until then. How sometimes it took everything you had just to get up and eat or just to move to the couch. Much less going through that fight almost every day and knowing you could feel like that again at a drop of a hat.

“Roggie?”

He hums and then tenses when he remembers that it’s Not Brian May. Everything feels like it did when they were just starting out. Slotting together, breathing and existing in each other’s space. He hates it so much that he forcibly pushes himself out of Not Brian May’s arms.

Not Brian May watches. His face still calm and caring and loving and Roger closes his eyes and turns away from it. He shivers because his side is soaked from Not Brian May. The anger wisps away.

“Roger?”

He bites his bottom lip because he doesn’t want to engage with this thing more than he has already. It’s so hard though because he wants nothing more than for this to _be_ Brian May. He can fool himself.

“Love?”

“Don’t call me that,” it has none of the bite he wanted.

“Sorry,” it’s said softly, “Roger, what’s happened?”

He rolls his eyes and brings his knees to his chest. If Not Brian May wants him to rip open his own scabs, then fine. It’s not like he’s stopped hurting.

“You died! You fucking died. You were stubborn. Look where it got you.”

“Roger, I haven’t – why would you – I don’t understand.”

Roger bites harder, and blood stings his tongue, “you did. It’s not just a bad dream. You’ve got a gravestone and everything.”

A hand – warm and large and familiar – is placed on his back. Again, because that’s how Brian used to comfort him. It works and more importantly, he does so with the same gentleness. A Brian May action through and through but this is Not Brian May.

“Roger, I’m not following. I’m alive, and so are you.”

He turns around a rant on his tongue. There’s no point in denying it. That stage of grief was passed ages ago and even though he flips from anger to depression and back again, he is passed denying it. When they put him in the ground it became real. The rant is on his tongue, but he can’t force it out.

Not Brian May looks older than he should be, Roger knows that. That was one of the first things he noticed, the wrinkles and dark circles. It’s nice, knowing that Brian would still be beautiful (not that it was a doubt, but he _didn’t know)._ The curls were different, not that he could tell how. Roger skims his fingers over Not Brian May’s cheekbones because he can’t _not_ touch.

It’s been a fucking decade; he lets himself have this.

The thing that killed his rant is the cord around Not Brian May’s neck. It’s subtle and hard to miss, but now that he’s close, it’s as clear as day. His fingers drift down to pull the jewelry free from under his shirt. Not Brain May watches him. He holds the pendant in the flat of his hand. A tiny silver moon glimmers softly, but more importantly there are three pristine gemstones: citrine, rose quartz, and emerald set flush against the silver.

His own hand drifts up to his necklace, where instead of citrine there is an amethyst and instead of a moon they were set on a circle.

Even to himself, he sounds like a broken record. He can’t believe he’s seeing this necklace after so long. Roger shouldn’t be able to touch it, considering they buried it with Brian because they weren’t sure what else to do with it. No one would duplicate it, because to most people it’s just a necklace they all wore, thinking that it is just a band thing.

It isn’t a stretch to think that a supernatural being would be able to duplicate it.

Not Brian May closes his hand over Roger’s. They’re just staring at each other, holding a necklace. It’s the most absurd thing he’s done since this entire situation started (the crying and slamming the door? That’s downright reasonable).

“Roger?” Not Brian May asks.

He must be going crazy, or at least looking like he is and if he gives into this, he’s as good as.

“I’m alive,” _no you aren’t._

“I’m okay,” _you died._

“You’re okay.” _Maybe not._

“Do we need to call the others?”

“No!” Roger shouts.

If by chance this isn’t a demon or angel or ghost, and this is a temporary fluke, he won’t force them to lose Brian again. It’s only supposed to happen once, and theirs just happened so much earlier than they wanted. He had been a mess. John had been worse off than him since he already had a fear of illness and watching it strip Brian away like that, and Freddie… Roger hadn’t known how to talk to Freddie for the first time in their life together.

“Okay, we won’t,” Not Brian May says, “just tell me how to help?”

_Stay. Be alive. Make this not a dream. Let me be alive._

“Leave,” Roger whispers, “just leave. Pretend you’re dead since you think you aren’t.”

“Roger I’m not – what are you going on about?”

The anger sparks just enough for him to stand, accidentally yanking the cord with him. It snaps.

“You, in 1974, **ten years ago,** died!”

He paces, “dead. No brain activity. No heartbeat. No breathing. Nothing.”

Not Brian May’s eyes narrow, “when I fell ill with hepatitis?”

Roger stares at him, “is there another time you fell deathly ill?”

Not Brian May shakes his head. He’s thinking deeply.

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s a change.”

“I didn’t die. I specifically remember not dying.”

Roger drops against the wall. Letting the necklace fall from his grasp. A headache is building between his eyes, and not that he knows how the afterlife works but he’s pretty sure headaches aren’t a thing.

“Just leave. _Please.”_

His voice cracks. Not Brian May stands slowly. As though expecting Roger to change his mind. It’s such a Brian thing to do that Roger has to slam his hand against the wall.

“Leave!”

“I’ll be by tomorrow. To prove that I’m not dead.”

“ _Do not_ get Freddie or John involved in this. Promise me!”

It seems dumb to make a hallucination/demon/angel/ghost promise something. Roger just can’t let Not Brian May near the others. He can’t imagine what it would do to them. Protecting them is his second nature.

“Okay. Ah. Do you know where the Red Special is? Is she safe?”

Roger laughs, raw and watery, “yeah. The Old Lady is fine. I promised after all.”

Brian May left this world with a half-finished doctorate, a broken heart, three albums, and a well-loved guitar. Roger wasn’t going to let her fall to the wayside. Even if he hasn’t seen her since. John thinks it’s a shame to let that guitar be a mystery to the world. Freddie didn’t eat for two days when he accidentally found it in Roger’s spare closet.

Not Brian May nods, “okay. I’ll see you then. Take care of yourself.”

“That’s rich.”

He’s almost disappointed when Not Brian May walks out of the door, and it doesn’t slam. Roger wonders what the harm would’ve been if he had let it go on. The smell, long buried but never forgotten, was perfect. A blend of stardust and honeysuckle. Not that he knows how Brian smelled of stardust, but the note was just unidentifiable.

Roger smelled a lot of flowers to try and get close.

The song is long forgotten on the table. What words could he possibly write that would even encompass everything he felt? Besides the song was supposed to be a tribute to the two hearts he had left. Happy and complete with a tinge of longing.

Lost in his thoughts he falls asleep on the couch. He wakes up to someone pounding on his door. His heart skips a beat as he thinks that it’s Not Brian May, and when he opens it, he’s nearly smacked in the face by a frantic John Deacon.

“John?” For a moment he thinks that the Not Brian May broke his promise.

“It’s half ten, your phone is off the line,” John says in explanation as he waltzes in. Freddie, who had remained on the bottom step quickly bounces in. A soft peck on Roger’s cheek, in apology and greeting.

“We were supposed to have breakfast,” Freddie murmurs.

“Right,” Roger says because it’s _Sunday_ and that’s the only time they can get together anymore.

Their hope for rock stardom long is forgotten. despite the small jam sessions and rare gigs and excitedly scribbled songs. They write music with guitar riffs that only sound right when played by a certain guitar and guitarist duo. It’s hard to be a rock band without a guitarist, and they’re far too picky because they know what they need.

“Sorry, bad night.”

John nods. Freddie wraps around him. He sort of wishes they hadn’t ended things the way they did. They tried, but without their fourth member, things were off balance. Roger too quick to temper and Freddie too prone to lonely nights and John too much in his head.

“You could’ve called, I would’ve come over,” Freddie whispers, “all I had was a small meeting with a buyer.”

Roger shakes his head, “I was too…” _overwhelmed, disbelieving,_ “exhausted.”

He looks over to John, who has been silent. John’s staring at the floor as though it’s grown fangs and – well guess he isn’t dead because John and Freddie are here – _fuck._ The single proof it hadn’t been just a vivid hallucination.

The silver moon shimmers. Freddie’s chin digs into his shoulder, but he doesn’t feel the pressure that would indicate Freddie breathing in a normal rhythm. No one moves, but Roger’s eyes are drawn to the three stones nestled together on a single silver bar, replacing emerald is either the amethyst or citrine around John’s neck.

Freddie unwraps himself and bends down as though it’s a snake and not a necklace. Roger’s gaze is drawn to the treble cleft that swings out as Freddie leans: citrine, amethyst, and emerald are all stylishly placed. When Freddie touches the pendant, Roger nearly expects the walls to melt or burn or do something.

Rain smacks against his window, but they had been expecting storms all week.

The silver makes a soft tinkling sound as it’s scraped across the wood. Roger grasps at explanations, but none of them make sense to him or would be believable.

_Yeah, I know that I can’t go to his grave or even look at his guitar and I still cry myself to sleep at night, but I got a duplicate of the necklace we use instead of engagement rings because –_ why? _Because I thought that it would be healthy to remind myself what I lost that day. Because that’s all we have left._

There is no reason for that necklace to be in his entryway, much less discarded like a piece of trash. The cord is broken too, and while they’ve all changed theirs to chain, Brian would never have gotten the chance to. Just like Roger shouldn’t know what he looks like at thirty-something.

Maybe, if he hadn’t seen John wrap the necklace in Brian’s **– cold still pale dead** – hands like a rosary he could play it off as him finding it and just giving him a shock. Except they all had been there for private farewells.

“Roger?”

He’s not sure that John had even said his name, just a ghost of movement.

“I don’t know.”

_He doesn’t._

“Why is _this_ here?” John stares at the slowly rotating pendant.

“I don’t know.”

_Well, he has an explanation._

“How can you not know how _that_ got in your entryway?”

_You see, our long-dead lover just knocked on my door. He looked good, has two arms and everything. It was like he was coming back from a weekend trip. Really confused about why we thought he was dead._

Or maybe:

_I thought I died last night and was being taken to hell or heaven by him and didn’t complain as much as I should have. Sorry about that, by the way, for confirming your worst fears._

That somehow is a worse explanation.

He bites his lip, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

John looks at him, unimpressed. Roger isn’t going to lie. They _wouldn’t_ believe him; they’d think that it was grief hallucination again and that he just randomly bought the necklace again. Freddie hasn’t anything yet, and Roger isn’t entirely sure he’s breathing yet because he’s so still.

“Freddie?”

“Roger, why?”

“Because. Listen, I promise you it’s not what you think.”  
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

Roger runs a hand through his hair. There’s another knock on his door. The sinking but elated feeling in his chest tells him exactly who it is. Good news is that the others won’t think he’s crazy… the bad news is everything else. How in the world is he going to explain this? He almost wishes it was an ill-timed mistress.

Something must show on his face because John marches past him and swings open the door. Roger gets to see a very stunned Brian for only a second before the door is closed in his face again. It’d be funny if this whole thing wasn’t completely mad. John turns slowly toward him.

Freddie is startled back into this world by the noise. He stands and holds the necklace tightly to his chest. Roger shrugs because there’s nothing else that he can do.

John opens the door again, and Roger sees Brian step in enough with his other foot to prevent it from closing again. That’s going to hurt like hell if John decides to slam it closed.

He watches everything with a strange sort of detachment. This is basically what happened yesterday, except for the spiral into _oh god, I’m hallucinating again._ Freddie steps back, the necklace pressed against his heart, but his face has run pale. John is standing with his arms splayed and mouth pressed tightly together. Roger raises a hand to put it on his shoulder because he knows that John is deciding between crying and being angry.

The look on Brian’s face tells him it’s going to be the latter. Brian looks between all of them, his eyes landing on Roger. The first meter of his house is getting soaked from the rain. He can barely see past Brian’s drenched form.

“Is this a bad time?”

The stillness is broken. John reaches up with his hand to stroke a finger down one of the age lines around Brian’s mouth. Meanwhile, Freddie staggers into Roger, who barely manages to keep them upright. The single finger turns into a full hand as John cradles Brian’s face. Brian closes his eyes and leans into.

Roger almost thinks that they’re just going to fall back into _this._ Then John recoils as though he’s been burned. He steps back and keeps backing up until he can hide behind Freddie.

“Roger, what’s going on?” John says.

The tinny tone of his voice belays the calm on his face. Roger looks back at him and then shrugs.

“I have no clue.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, this happened yesterday.”

“And you didn’t call?”

“What was I supposed to say?”

Roger takes a deep breath, letting it calm him down.

“I don’t know – even if he wasn’t – why wouldn’t you tell us… Freddie?”

Freddie is stepping forward. The necklace extended, Brian takes it gingerly, looking more like a startled puppy than a grown man. This time Brian cradles the necklace to his chest. Roger doesn’t think that Freddie has even blinked. Their hands linger for a second too long.

“I’d thought I lost it.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say given context. Roger starts laughing and he can’t stop himself. He doubles over and knocks John off of him. It’s borderline hysterical, because _seriously._ All three of them are looking at him with various degrees of worried expressions. He continues to laugh until he can’t make noise and tears are down his face. The fact that they’re all looking at him like _that_ only adds to the unfortunate hilarity of the situation.

Yeah, there’s a dead guy in his hallway, not actually dead, and he’s the _weird_ one. Eventually, Roger can calm himself down.

“Sorry, it’s just – you don’t know because you don’t think you died, so you being worried about losing a necklace – it’s. Well,” Roger shrugs.

John nods slowly, “I still don’t understand.”

“Do we have to?” Freddie asks, now holding onto Brian’s arm.

Roger notes with a sadistic part of his brain that it’s the one that Brian lost.

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“Well, you know the saying, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth – although why anyone would want to look in a horse’s mouth is beyond me.”

Brian snorts, “you have to file their teeth.”

Roger blinks. This must be a fever dream. He doesn’t get why no one else is freaking out about it. They should be doing something – he sobbed for like an hour. Roger looks at Freddie again, and he sees the wobble in his lip and the shimmer in his eyes. Then back to John, his face is so passive now that Roger knows there’s a storm coming.

It’s like they don’t want to make this unhappy. Like they want to ignore everything that happened and just _move on._ Roger can’t ignore the pain like that, he’s the only one that faced it head-on. The pain would be pointless if they _just_ moved on. He’s so surprised he’s angry that he can’t feel anger.

Shouldn’t he be happier?

“I don’t know what happened, but you have to know that I’m sorry.”

Ah. There it is. Freddie lets out a heaving breath and then barrels into Brian. They knock his key bowl off of the stand, and thankfully it doesn’t shatter. John’s holding onto his sleeve, with his nose red and eyes reddening but he doesn’t tear his eyes away. Roger gets that, he thinks that this is can’t be real.

That if he blinks, he won’t be seeing Freddie embracing Brian or John sniffling beside him. Granted, he’d rather it be happy and a grand reunion. But they’ve hurt, every day since then. If this isn’t some cruel trick, they’ll have years to be happy and reunite properly, without ruining Roger’s floor because the door is still open, and the wind’s shifted so it’s blowing _into_ his house.

He doesn’t care about that, not really. His brain is just taking in useless details.

John slowly steps forward, trusting his own eyes for a moment. When John joins the embrace, they all three slide to the ground. Roger watches still, fiddling with his necklace. His thumb strokes the amethyst. He’s not sure what to do.

Brian reaches out a hand towards him. Roger is powerless to ignore it. He grabs it as he kneels. He brings the hand to his lips and murmurs a half-forgotten prayer because this is a miracle or divine intervention or something and he’s _grateful._ Maybe he should thank the universe, and that this is a result of whatever theory Brian used to swear he was going to write a song about.

By that logic, another him has lost Brian. It hurts. Everything hurts it seems, but he knows that without Brian the world tends to fade into this fuzzy existence. Life is great, but there’s just something that could make it _better._ Still, he can’t help but think about that Queen, who lost their Brian.

Maybe it hadn’t been a good universe. He can’t imagine _not_ cherishing Brian with everything he has, but he supposes it possible.

An arm snakes around his waist, the hand is large and warm. John then. He finishes the prayer ( _blessed are those who mourn amen)_ and then unfolds his legs from under him. The water soaks into his pants. Brian’s must be worse.

Somehow, he’s able to kick the door shut, he doesn’t hear it latch. They’re in their own world. Freddie sniffling and rambling through the tears – “I don’t know what’s happened. How you are here but thank you.” – and John’s breathing is ragged. Roger presses his lips together to quiet the ugly sobs. It’s warm despite the heat having run out with the open door and the rain adding a permanent chill to the house.

He very carefully sidesteps the thought that _ghosts are cold._ Roger will gladly be haunted if he can have this again. Freddie and John tire themselves out with the crying, he feels like he’s done nothing but sleep. Hazel eyes meet his very carefully, skittish but not unkind.

“If I had known they’d be here, I wouldn’t have come.”

It’s so wildly unexpected that Roger can only stare.

“You made me promise – I don’t know what happened. Really.”

“I told you.”

Brian nods, the movement small, not wanting to jostle Freddie with his chin, “you didn’t want me to see them, because of what happened. So, I assumed it must’ve been bad.”

“Bad is an understatement, Brimi,” his eyes widen.

“You’ve said what happened and I put the pieces together, but _what_ happened?”

Roger lets out a long sigh, “you fell ill. The doctors tried everything, but you weren’t responding to medication, and they couldn’t save your arm. You gave up, even if you never said as much.”

Never said as much, but the light hadn’t been there after the surgery. The weakening vital signs when the infection was clear was proof enough. He’s always thought it was selfish and insulting.

“I’m sorry.”

“We don’t choose when we die,” Roger shrugs, “but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. Are you real? How are you even here?”

“I woke up on a park bench. I thought that I blacked out or something, that’s why I didn’t understand what was happening.”

John grumbles and digs his face into Brian’s rib cage. Outside the storm rages on.

“Then what do you remember?”

“Working on the next album.”

“From?”

“1975.”

Roger doesn’t get it. This Brian survived, but why hadn’t his Brian? He wonders if they share memories. They must to some extent because Brian had their necklace. Does that make this Brian not his even if they’re the same person? Why would who or whatever is responsible age Brian up, take those ten years?

Although seeing Brian at twenty-seven again might have made him keep the door closed. Then again, Brian would’ve just found either John or Freddie and this would’ve happened to them. Would that have been better?

“You’re thinking a lot,” Brian whispers.

When did he stop being Not Brian May?

“Someone has to. You usually do, but you don’t know, do you?”

Brian huffs a laugh, soft and melodic and Roger _missed_ it. More than he missed his smell and his voice, and the way Brian never seemed to lose his gentleness even in the middle of an argument. The laugh he figured out how to earn with cheap jokes and dumb pranks.

“I suppose I don’t.”

* * *

Roger spends the first three months waiting for… waiting to wake up. They’re all skittish around each other like they can’t trust that this is real. Not that Roger blames any of them. It’s not damage that can be fixed like stains from water.

His landlord is more than annoyed when Roger explains that he needs water damage fixed.

“What’d you do? Drop an entire pitcher of water?”

He makes up an excuse of dropping a bag, that was soaked from the rain and not realizing how wet it had been. The new entryway is tile now instead of wood.

* * *

Around five months, they start circling each other. He feels like he’s barely in his twenties and trying to figure out how to love his best friend without losing everyone else in his life and then panicking when he meets Freddie and suddenly there are two people he’s so very in love with.

By the time John signed on with them, Roger had decided to live in silence and then Brian (far from the boldest of them) yanks him into a kiss in front of Freddie and John. Then kisses John. Then Freddie.

Then that had been that.

For a year, and then it hadn’t been.

* * *

Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night to hear them all breathe. To see the glittering of the bar and treble clef and moon.

Other nights he has to pace outside with a cigarette with the suffocation of not understanding.

* * *

It takes seven months before they kissed like they used to. John was tired of not having this (one of their many late night confessions, where they questioned this without actually questioning it), and that if he’s learned anything it’s to cherish what you have when you have it.

John kisses Roger first. Then Freddie. Then Brian.

And then that had been that.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'd say that was fun, but that was some of my heavier angst I've written. I think? Well, at least in this fandom. This verse is... well it's a monster so far as potential.  
> As always leave your thoughts and comments below, or come talk to me on tumblr or join the Dork Lover's discord https://discord.gg/A6jqFXp


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